


A Wizard Christmas Carol

by wafagan14



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 05:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12976896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafagan14/pseuds/wafagan14
Summary: Oh, how Lord Voldemort hated Christmas. Until three ghosts visit him and show him the true meaning of the season!





	A Wizard Christmas Carol

Oh, how Lord Voldemort hated the Wizarding Christmas season.

This particular Christmas Eve was cold and dreary, with a dark frost collecting on the windows of Malfoy Manor. Despite the luxurious appointments of the house, a chilly draft ran through the rooms, causing shivers amongst the gathered Death Eaters kneeling before their master. Above them, A horde of Dementors only added to the miserable atmosphere.

It was like a Christmas party at a contagious disease ward, where everyone’s there, but no one wants to be there, you know? And you try to make it merry, with plastic bunting and cardboard snowflakes in the windows, but everyone’s miserable because, you know, they’re dying, and there’s mistletoe, but everyone’s got TB or SARS or something, so kissing is sorta off the table. And you can’t really celebrate with your neighbors, because they could kick it at any moment and so the gift that you bought them would just be, you know, for nothing. Like, you threw out the receipt, so the store’s not exactly going to take back that sweater, even if it's been sterilized to get all the Ebola out of it.

That was a long digression, sorry. Where was I? Right, Voldemort.

Our favorite Dark Lord was seated at his throne, casting his snake-eyed glare across the gathered minions with cruel detachment. “Wormtail,” he hissed. His one-armed underling appeared at his side. “What is today’s date?”

“D-d-december 24th, my Lord,” Wormtail replied, shaking. He always shook, even if it wasn’t cold. Maybe it was a nervous disorder. Maybe it was Parkinson’s. Voldemort didn’t know, nor did he care to ask; it annoyed him regardless.

“I thought so,” the Dark Lord said, standing up in his chair and smoothing out his robes. “And what is so special about this particular day, Wormtail?”

Pettigrew paused, scratching his head. “It is C-C-Christmas, my Lord.”

“Christmas!” Voldemort snarled. With a wave of his hand, he sent a gust of cold air down the ranks of Death Eaters, knocking a few of the less sturdily built over. “A time of merriment and cheer and peace on Earth and goodwill to all Wizarding men and women.”

“...Yes?” Pettigrew answered, unsure if his Lord was asking a question.

“Will you be celebrating, Wormtail?” Pettigrew was silent, save for the sound of his teeth chattering. “There’s no need to shake, my trusted servant. Tell me, how do you traditionally celebrate the winter holidays?”

“Well, I try to make a f-f-Floo call to my parents, but they refuse to speak to m-m-me, on account of I b-betrayed my greatest friends.”

“Understandable. Anything else?”

“Then I go to the Bulstrode’s holiday party.”

Voldemort nodded. “I see. Bulstrode!” A wizard in the front row stiffened at his name. “You traditionally throw a Christmas party?”

“Y-yes, m’Lord.”

“And what, generally, do you do at these parties?”

“Well, there’s dancing, and a banquet dinner, and then presents are exchanged.”

“Presents?”

“Y-yes, m’Lord. We usually do a Secret Santa, where we are all assigned a random individual to give a present to.”

“And who are you giving a gift to this year, Bulstrode?”

“...I’d rather not say, they’re in this room.” Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the wizard. “It’s to Lord Greengrass, m’Lord.”

“And what did you get Lord Greengrass?”

“...A tennis racquet.”

“You remembered!” A voice echoed out from the crowd.

“Silence!” Voldemort shouted. It echoed through the hall. “Crucio.” Bulstrode fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “What do you all have to celebrate? It has been eighteen months since my resurrection, and the Potter child lives! And what have you all done to solve that problem?” There was an awkward silence. Voldemort answered the question. “Nothing!” With a wave of his wand, the Cruciatus curse struck the entire congregation. All fell, screaming and groaning.

After a few minutes (ten, to be precise), Voldemort released them from their torment. Over the sobs, he spoke. “There will be no cheer in this house while Potter lives. Get out, all of you! And if I hear you had one ounce of holiday festiveness this evening I’ll… hammer your ears to the ceiling and leave you hanging there for week!”

The Death Eaters dispersed, some carrying the weaker ones, leaving Voldemort and, in some cases, their urine in their wakes. Voldemort turned and glared at Wormtail, who had hidden behind the throne throughout the festivities. “Wormtail?”

“I was j-just about to go, my L-l-l-l-”

Voldemort raised a hand. “No, stay. I won’t throw you out on Christmas Eve. I’m not a monster.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“However, you must still be punished.” He flicked his wand. A second later, Wormtail’s silver hand wrapped around its owner’s neck and began to squeeze. “Your hand will choke you until you are nearly dead, but it won’t kill you. I will release you from your torment tomorrow, if I feel like it.”

“S-s-so m-merciful, m-m-my Lord.” Pettigrew shrieked, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.

“If anyone is feeling suicidal enough to bother me, I shall be in my chambers. Good night.” 

* * *

 

The clocks struck twelve, echoing throughout the bleak house, and yet the Dark Lord was still awake. He sat in his chambers, before the fire, plotting. He was always plotting. There was very little else he did. Except for checkers, but these days no one wanted to play against him after he killed Youngblood after the Death Eater had bested his master twice in a row.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. Voldemort started, surprised that anyone would dare disturb him.

“Who would dare disturb me?” he shouted to the door.

A white fog began to drift under the door, filling the room. Despite several locking charms, the heavy oak door swung open, hinges squeaking like the sound of a dozen mice castrati singing a high C. A figure drifted in, dragging chains along the floor. Voldemort’s eyes widened as he recognized the face.

“Headmaster Dippett!”

“Tom Riddle,” the ghost said, peering down at his former student. “It has been a long time. How are your studies?”

“...What?”

“Sorry. Once a teacher, always a teacher.” the ghost shrugged, rattling his chains.

“What sort of nonsense is this!” Voldemort snarled, knocking his chair over as he stood up. “Did Dumbledore put you up to this? I warn you, I know of many exorcism spells.”

“Albus knows not of my doings,” the ghost said. “I have come to teach you to mend your ways.”

“Snowball’s chance in hell,” Voldemort replied. “You cannot stop my plans.”

“Not those ways, although that is something we must consider down the line.” Dippett said. “No, I speak of your hatred towards Christmas, of your cruelty to your fellow wizards in this time of love and cheer.”

“What are you going to do?” Voldemort snarled. “Make me sing carols? Have me dress as Merlin and deliver presents to all the good witches and wizards? Have three ghosts show me the meaning of Christmas in an attempt to make me see the error of my ways?”

“No,” Dippet said. “Wait, yes, that last one. You shall be visited this night by three ghosts. They shall come each hour hence. Each will reveal to you your past, present, and future.”

“Lovely.”

“In the meantime, I am obligated by ghost law to attempt to strike fear into your heart. How about I rattle these chains around and moan a bit? Would that do anything for you?”

“Probably not, but you might as well try.”

“Very well. **_WHOOOOOOOOOO! WHOOO! THESE CHAINS ARE HEAVY!_** ”

“That’s rather good.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

A minute later, Voldemort sat up with a gasp. He was in his chair, by the fire. “Hah, just a nightmare,” Voldemort muttered. He rarely had nightmares anymore. Usually his dreams were full of nice things, like beheadings and state-sanctioned genocide.

The clock struck one. The room filled with fog. “Oh, damn,” Voldemort muttered, as he felt himself drift away.

* * *

 

When the mist cleared, Voldemort was in a familiar hallway. He glanced around, confused for a moment. Peering through an open door, he saw a long row of beds. Entering the room, he walked to the window and peered out. Beyond, the city of London slept, although large balloons floated high above the skyline. Barrage balloons, as Voldemort recalled.

“Tom.” Voldmort spun around at the voice. A young woman, rather plain to look at, stood in the doorway, an aura of light around her.

“...Mother.” Voldemort whispered. He stepped forwards, then paused. “No, this can’t be you.”

“I am the Ghost of Wizard Christmas Past,” the figure of Merope Gaunt replied. “I merely take this form to bring comfort to you.”

“How can this bring me comfort?” Voldemort replied. “You abandoned me here, in this damned Muggle orphanage!” he gestured around him.

“Oh, I’m sorry to have abandoned you, I was too busy, you know, dying giving birth to you, but sure hold the high mortality rate of childbirth in 1930s England against me, that’s fine.”

“Was my mother a bitch, too?”

“Shut up and watch,” the ghost said, pointing to the door behind her.

The sound of voices grew louder. A young boy ran into the room and slammed the door shut behind him, bolting it.

_“Come out here, freak!” a voice shouted through the wood. “We’re not done with you!”_

“Muggle filth,” Voldemort muttered.

_“Muggle filth,” the boy muttered a second later, stepping back and slumping against the wall and began to cry._

“Do you remember this, Tom?” the ghost asked.

“How can I forget,” Voldemort said, stepping towards his past self. “This was the winter of first year, when Dumbledore made me come back to the orphanage. _‘Oh, the castle will be empty, Tom. Best to spend the holidays with children your age.’_ ” Voldemort wiped some wetness from his eyes.

“Are you crying?” the ghost asked.

“NO!” Voldemort replied defensively. He turned and pointed to his younger self. “What cruelty, to show a child the wonders of magic, and then throw him back into the wickedness of the mundane.”

Then, there came a knock at the window. Tom and Voldemort glanced up. A girl stood in the window, a surprising feat, as they were six stories up. He tapped again. Tom jumped up and ran over, throwing up the sash.

_“Minnie!”_

_“Hello, Tommy.” the girl said, smiling. “I see you’re having a rough time of things.”_

_“You wouldn’t believe,” Tom replied._

“Minnie McGonagall,” the ghost said, surprised. “I didn’t think you had friends.”

“She won’t admit it,” Voldemort sniffed. “We dated briefly in seventh year. She wouldn’t put out, bitch.”

“...Okay, wow. You make it really difficult to sympathize with you.”

_“What are you doing here?” Tom asked._

_“Dumbledore told_ m’dad _you were having a rough time of it, so I thought I’d spring you loose for the week. A jailbreak, as the Muggles say,” Minnie said, laughing. “Hop on, this broom can seat two.”_

_Just then, the door broke open, and two boys stormed in. “Riddle!” the oldest shouted. They then stopped, mouths open, at the sight of Tom and Minnie aboard a broomstick._

_Tom flipped his middle finger up. “See you next Christmas, gits!” he shouted as they zoomed away into the_ chill _London night._

In spite of himself, Voldemort chuckled.

“You see the magic of Christmas, Tom?” the ghost of Merope Gaunt asked, moving up next to him.

“That was charity,” Voldemort said, eyes darkening.

“It was still the thought that counted.”

Voldemort sighed. “Perhaps.”

* * *

 

There was a flash, and suddenly Voldemort found himself transported to a room full of people.

“Does this look familiar?” Merope asked, appearing at the Dark Lord’s side.

“It’s the McGonagall Christmas Ball!” Voldemort exclaimed. “And there’s Rufus McGonagall himself!” he pointed to a jocular-looking rotund man, standing by the punchbowl and beaming at the crowd. “But Rufus has been dead for years!”

“Yes, you killed him, as I recall.”

“Did I?” Voldemort asked. He honestly lost track sometimes of the people he’d murdered. Another individual caught his eye. “And there’s Charlus Potter!”

“Who you killed in ‘78.”

“And Veritas Lovegood.”

“Killed in ‘69.”

“And Dodona Trelawney!”

“‘73.”

“Okay, Trelawney was not my fault. She ran in front of a Muggle bus while I was chasing her. In hindsight, she really should have seen that coming.”

“Fine, you haven’t killed _everyone_ you’ve ever cared for. You see the point I’m trying to make, right?”

Voldemort wasn’t listening. He’d caught sight of his younger self. Tom stood over by the fireplace, eyes wide, mouth open. “What are you staring at?” Merope asked.

“The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,” Voldemort whispered. He followed young Tom’s gaze. “Homer Slughorn.”

“Oh, well that’s… what, Homer?”

“Yes, what’s wrong with that?”

“So, you’re gay?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No! Of course not. It’s just… you never mentioned it.”

“Why should I? It doesn’t define me.”

“Huh, this is awkward. Let’s get back to watching you and your little crush.”

“Please don’t call him that.”

Tom and a white-haired young man danced for a while. Voldemort threw himself down in a chair and watched. Merope stood, playing with her fingers. “I’ll just… give you some privacy for a few minutes,” she muttered, before moving over to the punchbowl.

When she returned, Voldemort was still enraptured. “He was the nicest boy you could ever ask for,” the Dark Lord said.

“Yes…”

“I wish this could go on forever,” Voldemort mumbled.

_“I wish this could go on forever,” Young Tom whispered into Homer’s ear._

“Is he related to Horace Slughorn, the Potions Professor?” Merope asked.

“Yes. They were brothers”

“I didn’t know he had a brother. Whatever happened to him.”

The room began to fade out, and Voldemort felt the familiar coldness in his heart. “I think we’re about to see.”

* * *

 

It was winter, again. Snow flurried outside the window of St. Mungo’s. The ward was empty save for an occupied bed and a guest. Voldemort walked slowly towards them.

“It was a muggle illness,” Voldemort said quietly. “Polo or something like that. There was no cure for it then.”

They watched as young Tom leaned forward in his chair, touching Homer’s hand. Homer didn’t respond. When Tom let go, the boy’s hand fell limp on the bed.

“Take me away, I don’t want to see anymore,” Voldemort said.


End file.
